Surrender
by SkyKissed
Summary: Renard will not be broken; Adalind will not have the pleasure of breaking him. He is stronger than this curse and he can stay away from her. He is better than this (he isn't.) R/J


**A/N:** First shot at these two crazy kids. Just something to hold us over until the show finally gets back. Don't own any of these characters. But they _are_ fun to play with.

* * *

**Surrender**

* * *

Over the years, he has become intimately familiar with death. Inflicting it and avoiding it, in equal measure. In his youth it had waited for him around every corner, the brutes of this city eager to prove themselves by putting down a stray prince. As he'd climbed the ranks, carved out a name for himself, these attempts had never ceased.

He's seen assassins, occasionally from his own family, occasionally from other frustrated Royals, occasionally a tribute from an overly zealous new criminal organization thinking to move in on his canton. He's learned to test his wine before he partakes, to check his home twice before settling in for the night.

A nuisance but a part of his life. The man finds these precautions, these threats, second nature, time rendering them ill effective.

To the world at large he is something greater than human, transcending every attempt on his life. He shines brighter despite it all, continues to garner power where his siblings fall. The world comes to fear him.

He's been injured but never fatally...

He's been stumbled but never truly set low...

After years, he sits secure in his safety. His secrets are too well guarded for the common thug to access and his reputation wards off the majority of threats. Over the years, he allows himself to get comfortable, arrogant. He's so used to looking for the daggers, in front of him and in his back, that he does not notice the pretty little woman slipping just under his guard.

He'd never _noticed_ her; that is the root of the problem. One tactical oversight and now he sits well and truly undone, not dying but utterly broken, a hollow echo of himself. He cannot rule, he cannot think, he cannot function.

Adalind destroys him where so many others have failed. When he lies awake at night, another woman's face drifting across his awareness, tearing down each of his painstakingly erected barriers, he can almost hear her voice. The tinkering sound of her laughter, malicious and biting, chasing away his attempts at sleep.

She's chosen her poison perfectly, driven the point home. To destroy him so absolutely, to tailor her revenge so perfectly, she'd had to know him. Adalind has memorized every facet about him; his pride, the things he values in life and his greatest fears. The little woman has cataloged such things, carefully tucked away every one of his instructions, every word he'd ever said to her. He had been her obsession and he had used that, exploited her unerring loyalty. He had trusted the absolute nature of her affection.

And for all the lauded control he holds over the city, all his vaunted talent for manipulation he had not _known_ her. It had never once occurred to him that she might do something like_ this_. In some twisted way, he has damned himself.

He has been relegated to nothing more than a lovesick child, chasing after a woman he has never desired. A vision in red and white, defying, shattering, every pattern he has spent his life establishing. He prefers blues; he prefers golds, regal and elegant. He prefers women who give off the illusion of purity, all light and too wide smiles, angelic beings in sinfully tall heels, every bit as twisted as himself. He prefers everything she is not (and never will be).

Adalind chooses the one woman he should never want, would never want. She's spent so many years studying his ideals, twisting herself into the perfect mirror of them, that she knows what will truly drive him mad. She replaces the sophisticated beauties he's always favored with the classic girl next door. She replaces biting wit and honeyed words dripping with poison with a genuine kindness, goodness, that threatens to burn him.

He prefers fabricated innocence; she gives it to him in its purest form. Juliette, an image in red and white, her pale skin and soft smile haunting his thoughts, all innocence and sincerity. He bars his teeth, trying to clear her from his head. She's something too bright, too good, to occupy his thoughts.

In place of his control, he finds himself chasing after her with an almost foolish abandon (he's never pursued; they come to him, begging). He shadows her steps, watches. Stupid, voyeuristic, childish things he would never have dreamed of succumbing to. During the day, his thoughts entertain themselves devising new and inventive ways to stumble across her path. He's traveling halfway across town simply for a chance to see her.

At night, she is waiting for him, red hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She's there in the darkness too, still smiling and reaching out to him, elegant fingers smoothing over his sides. In this strange haze, not quite asleep, not quite awake, he almost feels her. Her touch is cool in contrast his heated skin. An apparition real enough to fool his addled mind. He awakens with her still flooding his senses, dominating his thoughts. There is only her.

She is in a rush one morning, chatting animatedly on the phone with one of her friends. She leaves her scarf draped over the back of her chair, too busy gathering the rest of her things. Her purse, her coat, her coffee, a thousand things she's too exhausted to really give concern herself over. Dark bags rim her eyes now, the purple standing out starkly against her pale skin. She suffers in much the same way, fights in much the same way (because he is everything she's never wanted, never needed, isn't he?).

He hates himself as he watches her go, waiting for her to leave his sight before collecting her forgotten scarf. The man tucks it within his coat, stifling the familiar pang of self loathing and guilt that inevitably follows.

Now, sitting at his desk, Renard runs the fabric between his fingers, intoxicated and disgusted in equal measure. The thing is soft and so much like the pretty little veterinarian, a homey plaid rather than the bold colors Adalind had favored. It smells like her, crisp like the winter air just outside, tinted by cinnamon and something a little spicy. He hates that he's memorized that scent; it chases him home, haunts his dreams, lingers around his fingers well after he's washed her away. Like her image in his head, it's an omnipresent thing, a mark strictly hers which has managed to twist its way into his life.

He frowns, tucking the scarf away in one of the desk drawers. It's easier to (pretend to) forget there. There are a thousand different solutions to the simple problem. Call her (he can't hear her voice), stop by (he can't risk seeing her, not now), give it to Nick (can't risk explaining). There are a thousand excuses and he chooses to believe any of them over the truth.

The pathetic fact of the matter is that he cannot justify surrendering any tie to her, no matter how trivial.

* * *

The files in front of him blur together after a while. Case reports, witness testimonies, more than a few requests from the media he's been forced to field after Nick's latest...excursion. They are handled with an almost clinical efficiency.

But they never manage to truly distract his attention.

He feels her arms linked around his neck, her hair tickling at his shoulders as the apparition leans over his shoulder. The newest iteration in his obsession. She's so real; her nails scraping over his clavicle as she nips at his chin. He takes a steadying breath, attempting to shake her off.

"You feeling alright, Captain?" Wu is staring at him as if he's grown a second head, outwardly and genuinely concerned for his superior.

"Fine," bit off too quickly for the typically composed man. The apparition hums in response, pressing her lips to his chin. She feels the same, so real. Juliette seats herself on his desk, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, to his cheek.

"You're flushed, Sean. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

He doesn't respond. He's only insane if he responds (a hollow comfort that has long since worn thin).

She makes another amused little humming noise, reaching her own conclusion, before settling down properly beside him. One of her arms twines about his waist; she tucks her head beneath his chin. It's tame, almost...innocent, in the grand scheme of things.

And somehow that's infinitely worse. Passion and lust are easily written off; she is a beautiful woman. But these...mundane, these almost painfully _domestic_, scenarios are far more insidious. She is somehow twisting her way into his home, into every simple task he performs. She is everywhere and everything, permeating his life, coloring every facet until she is every bit as prevalent as the air around him.

"Has anyone ever told you you're attractive when you're thinking?"

He ignores her.

Juliette teases her lower lip between her teeth, looking the picture of innocence and desire. A strange amalgamation that somehow fits her perfectly. She smooths her hands over his chest, folding her fingers behind his neck. The apparition drags her lips over his chin, so vivid, so real, that he feels the warmth of her skin, the heat of her breath licking over him, "Looking so focused. You get this crease right..." she kisses the corner of his lips, "here."

He turns away from her. She nips at his shoulder instead, "Am I distracting you...?"

_Always._

All he can do is take a withering breath, fighting to retain his oft lauded control. He can't give in, not now. It will be too real and he. can't. give. in. He closes his eyes...

_...she's there too. She's everywhere..._

...forces himself to ignore the play of soft hands down his back, the tickle of her breath, the smell of her hair. Everything so real, everything screaming for him to just surrender.

He is_ more_ than that. He is not that _weak_.

A hollow comfort; he's grabbing his coat and heading for the door before he's even finished the platitude.

* * *

The curse links them in ways he's never really imagined possible. He can feel the weight growing in his gut as he closes the distance between them. The closer he comes to her home the greater the pressure, coiling in his chest. Desire so thick that it hangs off of him like a weight, impelling him forward.

He can still turn away. He doesn't have to do this.

_There's never been another option. He can't stay away from her._

Renard's fist clenches and unclenches at his side, nails digging hard enough at the skin of his palms that it breaks flesh. The hint of pain is enough to call him to his senses. His hand is held immobilized halfway to knocking on her door. He can back out of this. He will hold on, break this.

He will not be broken; Adalind will not have the pleasure of breaking him.

The man can only wince, his hand moving seemingly of its own volition. The knock seems all the more stark in the otherwise silent night, echoing around him, reminding him just how desperately he's damned himself. Her scarf is coiled around his hand, half forgotten, marking him. The house is dark but he knows she's there. He can feel her there. Nick's car is gone (no surprise; it hasn't been there for the last week and he hates himself for knowing that).

He feels her approach before her hears her, soft feet padding along the hardwood. The weight in his chest grows to a fever pitch, a reminder that this desire has been repressed for far too long.

_He will not be broken._

She hesitates before she opens the door, undoubtedly fighting her own inner battle. The poor woman doesn't understand the genesis of this attraction, believes herself insane. So tired; he suffers a pang of guilt at the sight of her. Her eyes are less bright, rimmed with angry purple; her cheeks are more sallow. The very image of a woman worn far too thin, slowly wasting away.

Renard knows he looks no better.

"Why are you here?" unlike the woman in his head, there is no note of teasing, none of the same energy he'd once seen her display towards Nick. Now she is simply exhausted, pleading with him.

"You forgot this."

They are both too far gone to ask why he has her scarf. Her eyes narrow but she doesn't look surprised. The only hesitation comes when she reaches out to take it from him. She doesn't want to touch him. She can't.

_He will not be broken..._

Their fingers brush. The smallest, most inconsequential touch is all it takes. Juliette's breath catches in his throat, her eyes screw shut. Over. It's over.

He doesn't want her (he wants her so badly it's almost painful, his entire body thrumming). Not like this; it's violates them both and whatever code of honor he still possesses bristles at the idea of taking her.

He tells himself to stop but his hand comes up regardless, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear, the vibrant red falling around his hand (he's alway preferred blondes but he's never found anyone so beautiful). His mind says stop, snarling and furious, even as they move through what is becoming an all too familiar scenario. Her arms wind around his neck, closing the last bit of distance between them.

He imagines even without the curse he'd be fond of her eyes. They are a beautifully expressive green, conveying just have desperately she_ needs_ him now. A violent, soul consuming emotion that nearly hides her reservations, guilt and self loathing in equal measure.

Juliette's lips are soft and yielding beneath his own, no hint of malice there. She does not understand her desire but she is not cruel; there is a sadness on her lips but it is for something else. Grieving the loss of something she's never entirely managed to understand. She clutches at him with new strength, swiping her tongue over his lips, desire overcoming her less violent emotion. Small hands clutch at his biceps, nails managing to bite at his skin through the fabric of his jacket, surging up to meet him.

The scarf falls between them, drifting to the floor, the door shutting on it as he pushes her inside. She is something so small, so delicate, his hands roving the length of her torso, sweeping over her hips before tracing upward over her breasts. The woman lets out a low moan, her tongue flicking his own as she pulls him back further into her home. She surrenders to this, exhaustion and supernatural desire shattering what remains of her control.

Only months before, he would have imagined himself greater than that. He could succeed where this little woman has failed. He could resist.

But he follows, hissing as she drags her nails down his chest, making short work of his shirt, edging it open with her nose. He is no better, lost in the scent of her, the feel of her.

Adalind triumphs where so many others have failed.

He is incapable of thought beyond this moment, how this will damn them both. This will not sever the link between them (will likely only exacerbate the curse, render their desire more pointed). The Captain can think of nothing more than the taste of her lips (like cinnamon and something singularly her), that her moan is the most beautiful sound he's ever had the pleasure of hearing. He cannot think of this as a betrayal of the Grimm. A disgusting violation of their rights.

There is only _her_, desire so thick it's painful. In the end, he is only human. He can only lose himself in her.

In the end, Sean Renard is broken.


End file.
